The Real Potter
by nothing-fancy
Summary: "Every man wants a half-Swedish, half-Japanese, permanently 25-year-old, 5ft 8in bisexual gymnast with a medium cup, a penchant for tastefully slutty cocktail dresses and an erotically feisty side" H/HR. COMPLETE. Yeah baby.
1. Prologue

**A/N: **Hey :) It's me again... can't remember who I am, can you? It's been a LONG time my friends. I've kinda grown up in the two years I haven't posted anything. I know, I know. It's awful, I know? But I've just been preoccupied with more important things: exams and the hassles of being a teenager. Okay. This fic is reeeeally different from anything I've wrote before and is an update of a little something I wrote in November. The previous version got a lot of interest but, for me, it wasn't going anyway. So with a little time and some TLC I've re-jigged it around. I do apologise if someone else has already captured this idea, but I've done my research and nobody seems to have to. The character's may seem a bit OOC, but it has to be like this for the story to click. H/Hr as always luvvies :)

**Summary: **Harry Potter isn't who we thought he was, is or is going to be. Infact, the books and films are just inaccurate biographical tall-stories of his life. Here's what it's like from Harry's POV.

**Disclaimer: **If I had wanted to claim Harry Potter for my own, I would have done it in the past two years of no writing. And bagged Malfoy for myself. Yummeh. And I don't own the Truman Show either.

Here it goes:

**Prologue**

Many celebrities write autobiographies and have films written about them. Most of them, in fact, get someone else to do it for them. But me? I'm different. I've always been different and the outsider. I didn't have that difficult rise to fame, lucky break or that make believe sob story. I was born into fame. Like Truman was born into the Truman Show. I had no choice in who I was, what I was or who I am today, in which, probably makes my tragic story even more juicy for authors and film directors to sink their grubby paws into.

7 books, 8 films and thousands of thousands of merchandise all in my name. A name and a story that has been changed. Sure, Voldemort had a personal vendetta and thirst for my blood to spill in his claws, and I did eventually and inevitably destroy him, but it's not what it think it is. It's not all swish, flicks and incantations. No. It's much more animalistic than that. It took years of blood, sweat and tears to relieve the public of an evil burden. And did I really want to do it all? Risk my own life for others? No. Because, even as "magical" as I am, I am a human man and humans are selfish and vicious.

I tip my hat to JK Rowling though. She did an excellent job of over-emphasising and ripping my story to shreds to create some fictional tale that has thousands of screaming girls, mothers and gay men drooling over me. I mean, the amount of fan mail is immense. NOT. I am not helpless. I am not twiggy and testosterone deficient. I am a human male with emotions hard to control, and mood swings large enough to push a kid down a slide with a single word. She did capture some things though. My name is Harry James Potter. My parents (Lily and James Potter) were killed by Voldemort and I was saved by my mother's love. My best friend is Hermione Jean Granger. I was sheltered by my Aunt and Uncle from a baby, and I had no idea the magic I was capable of until Hagrid came storming through my door on my 11th birthday.

Let me a few things straight though. My first kiss was not with Cho Chang, Dumbledore isn't all he's cracked up to be, and I am most certainly not in love with Ginny Weasley.

I was eleven when I made my first friends. Being a reject of today's society, didn't bag me much sympathy and friendship in the Muggle world; but apparently, being a freak in the Wizarding World attracts all kind of attraction – from random, usually-dignified thirty0-somethings flashing you their boobs, to children standing open-mouthed when they see you doing something normal, and exclaiming that "it's awesome!"

But when I boarded that Hogwarts' Express, I knew that being different was gonna open all kinds of gates I'd not even dreamt about before. Most children imagine what life would be like as something different, but I'm only human; and at that time I was an easily influenced little prepubescent boy. For Merlin's sake, I didn't even know what puberty was. Seeing Hermione Granger for the first time, was and still is, the most floor-hitting experience I had ever experienced. Seriously, I tripped over a Chocolate Frog wrapper Ron had thrown in his quest to eat every inanimate object created. I'd never seen a girl before, unless you count the vindictive bitches that ruined my life, and my "Aunt Petunia" - who both resembled nothing but the Devil's lair for me. She was a pretty girl and still is to this day. In some ways, I was kinda glad that she was "different" as well; as, if it wasn't for this, I wouldn't even have the joy of her friendship today.

And as for Ron, well he's just… he's not what he is supposed to be. JK always portrayed him as the supportive best friend that bagged the girl; but he really isn't. He was just in it for the fame. After the war, and after I'd helped him claw his way to the top of the social ladder, he swiftly packed his things, and gallivanted off to accept his place as a Keeper for the Chudley Cannons. Unfortunately, for no one except him and his giant inflatable ego, he was dropped when his stardom was lost, and is now working in some base-rate office block for the Ministry. What a shame! Karma of LEAVING me and Hermione, STRANDED in a forest with nowhere to go, and a slim-to-nothing chance of even surviving seems to come back around, doesn't it? And it's fabulous. Ron Weasley never was all he cracked up to be. He was a deceitful, sponging and irrational "man" (if you can even call him that).

Neville Longbottom was always counted as that extra character that just seemed to be there for the sheer comedy factor, but he was much more than that. He wasn't dumb, he wasn't the dopey one; he was the one that understood. To be honest, he was one of my best friends that stuck through me, thick and thin.

Ginny Weasley. Well… what can I say about Ginny Weasley apart from that she's a deluded bitch that ruined my love life and having any sense of normality. How she became my "wife" and "all time lover" was a kiss and tell. It was at Ron's eighteenth. Too much firewhiskey + a girl throwing herself over the ground I shit on = a little tipsy frisky business. I was drunk, okay? Next week, she ran to the papers, saying that I'd confessed my for her, and that we were engaged. Headlines ran past me, and I was bombarded with paparazzi more than I'd ever experienced before. And before I knew it, she was "pregnant with the Boy Who Lived". My arse. I know it all. She faked it all. I never did like her, but after one night of meaningless sex and comforting beyond belief, she claimed she was pregnant. It ruined my life. Nobody would employ me because I was "lying" about the allegations that I was the father. 9 moths later when she revealed she lied about it all was amazing. I felt like the weight had been lifted off my shoulders.

Nobody wants to be tied down with a child and crazy bitch at 17. Nobody.

As for now I am living in Hogsmeade in a two-up-two-down typical townhouse opposite from Gringotts. I am a Professor of DADA at Hogwarts. Having a childhood wrecked by a selfish and torturous bastard has a few impacts on you – one of them making sure that no one else goes through what you did. There's only so many selfish acts a man can perform in his life before a guilt trip takes its toll.

Now I've got a few things straight, let's get on with my story. If you're expecting a lovely fluff filled story then turn away now. Sex, drugs and rock and roll for everyone. Good? Let's get on with MY story then. The REAL story. The REAL me.

**A/N: Okay. Here's the deal-io. I'll leave this up for a week. And if you don't like it, then I'll take it down. Give me a review on the whole thing. Anything. I welcome any ideas. I do not intend to give off any JK bashing, as she created this marvellous story, and without her I wouldn't have this. **

**Gimme a break and a review. Virtual cookies for all. **


	2. Chapter One

**A/N: **Hellloo. Here's another chapter. It's short-ish because I really didn't know how to start this chapter. I might rewrite it and join it with a few other chapters. The first section is in Harry's POV and the second section is in third person.

**Disclaimer: **If I had wanted to claim Harry Potter for my own, I would have done it in the past two years of no writing. And bagged Malfoy for myself. Yummeh.

Et voila:

* * *

**Chapter One - Dousing in Ecstasy**

Another Saturday night and another excuse to get completely and utterly off my face. Firewhiskey, butterbeer and anything and everything else alcoholic streaming down my throat for ten hours. Of course, followed swiftly by grabbing something with two legs and a vagina and stumbling into some back alley. Result? Twenty minutes of ecstasy, twenty minutes to forget about everything and the next 24 hours to recover. If you can't tell, it's kinda become my routine. If I was a muggle I'd be riddled with crabs and HIV by now, but luckily things like that don't exist in the Wizarding World. That's maybe because we're not stupid enough to sleep with a monkey in the first place. It's good really because everyone who is anyone wants a piece of this shit. The "shit" being metaphorically my dick.

As a teacher I should probably be setting a good example of treating women equally with respect and honour – not using for them for a bit of slap and tickle. But my students know that I don't do it on purpose. It's all about forgetting how much I miss her and how much I kick myself everyday for letting her go. She deserves better than me. I could give her nothing.

Who cares though? Who cares that the Boy-Who-Lived has feelings? Who really cares that maybe he's not everything that he's been made out to be. People have feelings, but apparently people who perform heroically some time in their life don't. They're not allowed to. This also comes along with not being allowed to have a private life, and not being allowed to have a noticeable hangover. Ridiculous. Do they think I don't shit either and that people drink my piss as Champagne? If it weren't for me then they would all be _stupefy-ed _into the next bloody millennium. And nobody wants that. Apart from Ol' Voldy but he's well and truly extinguished from my life. Thank Merlin.

* * *

Fumbling in his pockets, Harry Potter retrieved his key and shoved it forcefully in his front door. He missed the keyhole several times, taking chunks out of the wooden door. He sighed, letting the key drop from his hand onto the floor, and hit his head against it.

"I'm such a bloody twat sometimes," he muttered under his breath as he retrieved the keys from the floor and attempted to open the door again, this time successfully.

Stepping through the doorway into his house, he was greeted by the stench of stale alcohol and gone-off Indian food. Even though he was a Wizard (and had known he was for 15 years) he still had his muggle traits. Cheap, nasty Indian food being one of them. The healthiest thing that had passed his lips in a week was probably the mango chutney and poppadoms.

Even though he ate appallingly, Harry wasn't fat. In fact, he was far from it. After the gruelling physicality of being Head Quidditch Coach as well as a teacher; his body had adapted to it. He didn't have the figure of a bodybuilder, but he was slightly toned and defined which was easily disguisable from his female fans/students.

He looked up as he put his keys on the hallway table next to the door. Right in front of his eyes was a mirror with an unfamiliar pink note stuck to the centre. Sighing, he ripped the note from the glass and read the note aloud to himself, "Hey Harry. Thanks for dinner and "dessert" – strawberries are definitely my favourite..."

He grunted in disgust before ripping the note and letting it drop to the floor. The note wailed as it hit the floor, obviously this mystery girl had sealed it with a magical kiss which she could sense the touch. Some people loved him that much. It was kinda sad really, as sad as it was that he couldn't even remember her name or the names of the previous two hundred girls. The only name he could remember was –

"OUCH! Fucking hell! Who leaves ceremonial, jewel encrusted swords on the floor?" he screamed, proceeded by muttering "Oh, what's the bloody use. No one is here who cares. No one has been here who cares. EVER."

He picked up the sword and hung it back up on the wall where it had obviously fallen off from the trophy case. He sighed. His house was full of artefacts that people had dumped at his disposal after the war. His "followers" thought they were doing a good deed by returning all the useless crap he had discarded at his backside in the first decade of his life; when in actually fact they were just filling the void that he had sorely missed for a long time. He didn't even know how long she had been gone and yet it felt like eons.

He proceeded through to the kitchen where all of his breakfast paraphernalia had been discarded from breakfast. He never was a good time keeper in the morning and this usually ended up with milk dripping off the counter top and a banana being stuck underneath the oven. He chucked his bag on the floor and proceeded to clean up. Tonight was the second Friday in the month which was the night in which he and Hermione got together for dinner. And he'd forgotten until now.

"Shit!" he shouted before taking his wand from his pocket, _"__dispono,_" he said in which all the clutter in the kitchen put itself back in its rightful places.

He drummed his fingers against the granite counter in thought and he seemed to be in a trance, completely lost in thought. Suddenly the phone rang which made him jump. He turned towards the direction of the phone which was positioned on its stand on the other side of the kitchen. He took a step towards it, and then stopped himself. Usually answering the phone is the most simplest of tasks, even in the muggle world when you are plagued with people wanting to know whether you want to buy a window, or if you are interested in buying penis insurance.

Wizards had soon caught onto the telephone idea. Much quicker than sending an owl or a patronus, and you can lie easily without people looking at you in the face. And it's easier to ignore. Perfect for unsociable wizards who spend their lives immersed in books and have fear of communicating with the outside world.

Harry was still staring at the phone. It had rang six times already. But how did he know that by picking up the phone he would be thrown into a phone interview with the new "Rita Skeeter style" stalker journalist; or it would be just a normal phone call from one of his few REAL friends.

"Why did I even get a phone?" he muttered to himself, unlocking his eyes from the glowing phone and carrying on with his cleaning.

"Hello. This is Harry Potter. Sorry I can't talk to you right now or never if I really don't want to; but if you leave your name and number I might get back to you. Thanks," his answer phone spoke.

There was a beep followed by, "Ahem. Ummm... hey Harry. It's Hermione," the female voice spoke.

Harry stopped dead in his tracks and turned towards the phone. His attention was completely focused on the voice being recorded.

"Well, umm, you're probably avoiding the phone right now. Normality really. Anyway, umm, I have to cancel tonight. I have lots of work to do. Okay. Umm, love you," she said before the answer machine clicked off.

He slid down the wall and sat on the floor, "Well that sorts out things. Now no one has to suffer from food poisoning."

Scrambling up, he grabbed his robe and ran up the stairs. Entering his bedroom, he once again started muttering to himself, "She's probably just spending the night with Krum, so why I can't I just spend the night with a "Mandy" or a "Sally"? It's not as if meaningless sex ever did anything to hurt anyone."

Sighing, he grabbed his towel and made it into the bathroom. He put the towel on the radiator and removed his shirt. He stood in front of the mirror which was on the wall behind his sink and switched on the taps. He rested his hands on the brim of the sink and let his head and his shoulders drop. He just stared into the water swirling down the sink hole blankly. It was usually how he prepared himself for a night out. It aided him to forget about her and forget about the world in front of him, which switched him from emotion-ridden-Harry to emotionless-carefree-Harry in a matter of minutes. Sometimes emotion-ridden-Harry reappeared in his quest for a shag, and grabbing the girl all he would think about was her. But it was okay, because it was the only way he was going to get close to her.

He looked up in the mirror, and splashed his face with the water gushing from the tap, "Snap out of it," he said to himself before removing the rest of his clothes and stepping into the shower.

He let the hot water massage his back, relieving the tension from his day. Teaching was never the hardest job, but putting up with the fame was. Being a celebrity was definitely the hardest job any one had to go through. You had to be the "right type" and if you ever slipped up from this "right type" the papers would be all over you like wizardpox.

That's usually why he paid his shags to keep their mouths shut. He knew that his reserves would drain eventually from paying them; but it was better than hiring a prostitute. These girls WANTED him. At least, that's what he liked to think. In actual fact, they just wanted the Boy-Who-Lived. But he'd adapted to it. He knew that there would never be a partner that liked him just for him. He was fine with that, as long as he repressed his true feelings with Jack Daniels.

He stepped out the shower and doused himself in some fragrance that was guaranteed to "grab the girls" – another great invention by the Weasley's. It seemed to work in his case anyway. He took the first clothes from his wardrobes and made it down the stairs. It just seemed like his quest to forget, in other words his Saturday night routine, just had to start a day earlier.

**A/N: Give me a review on the whole thing. Anything. I welcome any ideas. I do not intend to give off any JK bashing, as she created this marvellous story, and without her I wouldn't have this. **

**Also, I know it's short, and I'm repeating myself again but I really didn't know what else to write in this opening chapter. **


	3. Chapter Two

**A/N: **I don't mean to sound all picky, but people are reading this and not reviewing. Reviews seriously help me. So please give me any feedback, even if it is abusive. I need to know whether it is worth it to actually carry on this. Meh, here is another chapter. Enjoy all you "non reviewing suckers" ;)

**Disclaimer: **I would have Malfoy if I owned it. Do I? NO.

* * *

**Chapter Two **

I've never really been a people person. I mean, I've always done stuff for people and talked to people once in a while; but it just never seems to be for me. In my eyes, sitting by yourself and minding your own business is much better than faffing around after other people. This is probably at cause of Dursley Dickhead. Locking me in a cupboard, hiding me from society and treating me like shit really doesn't help. If you don't feel like you are somebody and that you are worth something then other people aren't gonna receive that vibe from you and are going to shun you from themselves.

Being all famous and having people lick the ground you walk on doesn't help either. Everyone is the same. Everyone just wants a piece of me. They don't want to have a conversation with me about mindless jibber-jabber, or have tea with me in the afternoon. They just want to know what is going on in my life, what "makes me tick" or who I slept with last night. To be honest, I don't want to divulge any of that information; and as for whom I slept with last night? It was a girl and that is all I can recall.

Fame brings nothing but people who want you for your money. These people can be used though, as has been shown by the number of people I have shoved my dick in, but sometimes you just want to sit by yourself and think. Or just sit. Just sitting is good. Thinking takes up too much energy and at the moment thinking just revolves back to one situation – my "love" life.

Sex isn't love. Sex is just a part of life. Or even a way of life like breathing or eating pancakes for breakfast. Love is special. Love hurts. Love kills and love is hate. A few minutes of "passion" doesn't equate to waking up with your other half breathing peacefully next you. Shagging in a cubicle doesn't add up to holding a hand with someone you love. Even eating ice cream isn't the equivalent of just knowing that they love you back for who you are and not what you have done in your life. With love comes forgiveness and with love comes friendship.

* * *

"So Mr Potter," said a leggy blonde beside who was sitting on bar stool, "Tell me about yourself."

Harry, who was completely ignoring anything that she had said, stared into the golden liquid in his glass. The liquid swirled around as he moved the glass. His eyes had glazed over deep in thought. The blonde took a drink from her wineglass and turned to face Harry. She looked at him and clicked her fingers in front of his misty eyes, "Ahem!" she coughed.

Harry startled awake from his trans. He cleared his throat and run a hand through his hair, "Ahem. Umm, sorry. I kinda just... you know..."

"Ignored me?" she replied, her dulcet voice laced with a harsh tone.

Harry paused, "I wasn't so much _ignoring _you. I just kinda got lost in thought. I've been thinking too much lately," he laughed, trying to regain that 'trust' again. Well, at least enough trust to get in her pants.

"Who is it? Who is she?" she interrogated, "Do I know her?"

Harry looked her completely bewildered, "What?"

"Well, guys just don't think, do they? They have to have a muse," she replied. Her voice grew more and more frustrated by the word, "Are you even here to speak to me? Or have a date with ME?"

"Yes, yes, of course... erm..." he paused as he forgot her name.

"So why don't you answer my question?" she said, her anger receding from her voice.

"Which question?" he asked.

She laughed as she swirled her drink before taking a sip – her eyes completely fixated on the red liquid, "I'll just pretend you never said that."

Harry looked at her, "I'm being serious. Which question?"

"Jesus, guys are simple," she muttered as she got out her purse.

Harry noticed her packing up her belongings and asked, "Are you leaving?"

"Yes, of course I'm bloody leaving. All night your mind has been wandering somewhere else. Did you even want to talk to me tonight? Have a date? You know, converse with the outside world and not inside your little shell of fame?"

By now, she had shoved 20 sickles on the bar and had grabbed her bag. She stood up, "Or did you just want a night to forget everything? Forget all about her?"

He stood flabbergasted. Somehow she had read him like a book, "I..."

She turned to him, her eyes blazing with fury, "NO! Don't you _even_ make up some shit. I'm through. Other girls might be able to put up with your fancy sweet talking, but I can't."

Harry stood up, fishing for his money before slamming it on the counter. He followed after her, almost running and knocking other tables as he exited the pub. He soon grew breathless as he reached the outside. The cold winter air broke on his face almost as sharp as the crack from her Disapparation.

There he stood, alone, for what seemed the first time in years. For once in his life, someone had seen that all these girls were just a game. Just a game to keep him entertained in his somewhat boring after-fame life. He stared at the point where she had gone in silence. His fists curled into balls and he became tense, "FUCK!" he shouted, relieving the tension.

He stomped against the ground like a wailing baby, "FUCKING HELL!" he screamed.

Soon, his tension broke to tears. It was the first time in years that he had cried, "The Chosen One doesn't cry," he muttered to himself as he dragged his feet home.

He reached his door, holding back his sobs, and unlocked it. As he closed the door behind him, he leaned against it and quickly slid to the floor. Tears rushed from his eyes. Tears of realisation that he couldn't do this anymore. He couldn't carry on with this lie he was living – this suppression of feelings he had endured for years. He curled up on his side letting the anxiety leave him.

* * *

Night had left Hogsmeade and the sun rose on a Saturday morning. Harry Potter remained in the foetal position he had fallen asleep in, his muscular body blocking the door. Sun streamed through the small gap at the bottom of the door which reached Harry's face. The bright light woke him up.

He opened his eyes and grunted, "Eurggggh," he said groggily.

He stretched and let out a yawn and he fumbled for his watch, "11am? Oh, Merlin. At least it's a Saturday," he added as he closed his eyes again.

Almost as soon as he had closed his eyes there was a loud knock from the door behind him. His eyes opened with a start, but decided to ignore it. It was most likely just going to be press anyway. Closing his eyes for the second time, there was another knock.

A voice spoke from the other side of the door, "Harry? Harry let me in!"

Harry turned away from the door, "Piss off," he answered blearily.

"No I won't "piss off" Harry. Trust you to be so kind," the voice snapped, "Now get your lazy arse off where ever you are and open this bloody door."

"Eurrgh," he said, for the second time this morning. Grunting was definitely his favourite form of speech.

He stood, opening the door which he had obviously had forgotten to lock the night before, and was greeted by a fresh faced Hermione.

"Morn – oh dear," she said, quickly changing a more concerned tone, "What happened? I didn't think you usually went out on Friday nights..."

"I don't," he said as he turned his back on her and walked towards the kitchen.

"I guess I'll just take that as a "come in"..." she mumbled incoherently, following him into the house.

She carefully closed the heavy, wooden front door and turned to the direction in which he had disappeared. The stench of "male" that had greeted him the evening before filled her nostrils. It really wasn't as bad as she anticipated. In fact, it was quite pleasant. It smelt like Harry. The smell that had accompanied her for 15 years. She'd grown to like it.

A kettle whistled, "Tea, one and a half sugars, no milk, stirred twice?" he called from the kitchen.

She smiled, "You know me too well Mr Potter."

She walked to the kitchen and lent against the door frame watching him make the tea. He handed her the tea and she took her usual spot sitting on the counter top, and him on the counter opoosite next to the oven. It had become routine really.

"What blesses me with your delightful presence today, Miss Granger?" he said taking a swig of his coffee.

She smirked, "Well, actually, I have a favour to ask you..."

"Go on," he said.

"Neville, Luna and I are going out for tea," she explained, "And they told me to ask you. And I thought because I cancelled on you yesterday..."

"Why did you cancel on me yesterday?" he interrupted, putting down his mug next to him.

"Well, I really wanted to come because it's our thing and everything..." she said, "But I kinda got asked on a date."

"A date? Do I know him? Who is he? Where did you go?" he interrogated.

"Wow. Well at least I know now how to get you interested..." she trailed off before taking a sip.

"I'm just concerned for your safety, that's all," he replied.

_Yes, _he thought, _safety. That's a good excuse. _

"Well, his name is Dale."

"Dale? As in that dick-faced Dale who works in Magical Law Enforcement?"

"No. As in my date from last night Dale who works in Magical Law Enforcement," she replied.

"So dick-face then," which she replied with a sigh, "What's so appealing about him?"

"He doesn't have a dick on his face!" she exclaimed.

"Meh. Was he a good shag? Did his face dick..." he asked.

"You are so vulgar sometimes! Not everyone "shags" people just after meeting them."

"So you didn't sh.."

"HARRY! Stop using that word. It's so... disgusting. And objectifying."

He took a drink from his mug, "You love it."

"You wish," she added and took the last drink from her mug. Standing up, she said, "I'll see you at 7.30. I'm knock on your door. Make sure you aren't sleeping behind it this time."

He stood up and embraced her. She kissed his cheek briefly and left the room, "I'll let myself out. Bye."

"Bye," he said after her. By God, she drove him crazy.

* * *

**A/N: Please give me a review – without them, I can't breathe. Do you really want me to die? Is a FanFiction death what you want? If you really want one, I'll write one into the book. But my death? NO.  
**


	4. Chapter Three

**A/N:** I'm going away on Friday, so I won't be posting anything before the 14th July. Possibly, even afterwards as I haven't even written the next chapter yet. I'm also sorry because I won't be able to reply to your reviews - those of you who are actually bothering to follow this story ;) So here you go. Next chapter. I personally think it's not my best work, but writers' block has caused me to just write down whatever I thought would fit. ALSSSSSO, I am a female (if you can't tell) so writing this story poses a problem as I am trying to capture the male mind. Please tell me if it's actually realistic, and I actually sound like a man writing it.

**Disclaimer: **Rupert Grint would be in my bed. He's not. BAHA.

* * *

**Chapter Three**

One thing that has baffled men for centuries – women. Why are they like they are? Why do they have to travel in packs or why can't they go to the toilet by themselves? Why do they swing their hips when they walk? By Merlin, it just makes the mind wander and it just takes a moment. Just a moment to imagine that you are dancing with her - I'm her pole and all she is wearing is her shoes. It's torturing.

I'm still single, if you can't count a little slap and tickle, but I've stopped searching for the perfect woman because I feel I've gotten as close as I'm going to get to that. And I'm also 26, which means my expectations are totally different than what they were when I was younger. Like most men, my standards for the perfect woman changed as I aged. They started off low at around 16-18 when the perfect woman was basically any girl that had a pulse and would agree to have sex with me (and honestly, I think if push came to shove the pulse would have been optional). That was the sheer quantity stage. The stage when I'd do anything for minutes of ecstasy.

Mind you, I'm still the same now. I've found that perfect woman but it doesn't mean I can have her. I have to substitute whilst hat one woman that drives me mad. A woman who can eat. A woman who doesn't poke her food around the plate and hide things under her knife and claim to have a thousand intolerances and allergies. A woman who isn't "off carbs", "not drinking this year" and one who will tuck into that banoffee pie and not feel guilty at all. Every other man on this planet is still searching for a half-Swedish, half-Japanese, permanently 25-year-old, 5ft 8in bisexual gymnast with a medium cup, a penchant for tastefully slutty cocktail dresses and an erotically feisty side that meant arguments about the electric bill always deteriorated into sex or shoving his dick in her mouth rather than slammed doors.

Why can't I have her? Because, basically, I'm not her Tobey Maguire. I'm not that superhero Harry Potter that JK created. I haven't swept her off her feet. The truth is, I don't know how to. I don't know how to steal her heart and capture her soul. She did it to me. How the hell do I return the favour? She has two hearts in her power and, the fact of the matter is, I have none. Nothing to play with. No person to wrap round my finger. Fucking hell.

* * *

"Table for four please. Should be under the name Granger?" said Hermione as she stood elegantly in her black stilettos.

Harry stood in owe beside the beautiful woman. He kept his eyes fixated on the waiter. He knew even if he took a sly look at her long tanned legs he wouldn't be able to stop himself ripping off her silk dress and pushing her to the floor.

"Umm..." said the waiter, "I'll just have a look for you."

The male waiter was probably of an age where seeing your mother's cleavage sent those hormones raging; and, due to this, blushed at the woman in front of him. Harry knew that he was trying to impress her in the very same way every single male does to any moderately good-looking female: embarrassing himself with cockiness.

The waiter smiled at her, "Okay," he squeaked. It seemed his balls hadn't dropped either which made Harry smirk.

Hermione elbowed Harry in the ribs, smiling at the poor boy as he spoke, "It's table five. I'll show you the way."

He walked out from behind the desk, tripping in his step. He fell into Hermione, his hand "conveniently" falling on her chest, "Merlin," he blushed, looking down at the floor, "I'm sorry."

She laughed, "It's okay. Now, how about that table."

The boy lingered a moment longer than he should have before re-establishing his footing and making his way to the table. Harry grabbed Hermione's hand and brought her closer to him, "Get in there lass."

For the second time in two minutes, she digged him in the ribs and brought his ear to her mouth, "It's driving you crazy. You have competition."

Shivers shot down Harry's spine. She drove him crazy in ways she couldn't even fathom.

"Here you go Miss Granger," the boy spoke as he presented her table, "If you need anything this evening just give me a shout."

Harry looked at the boy, "Don't worry lad – she will. I'll make sure," making the boy blush and scuffle over to the reception desk.

"Teasing isn't nice Potter," she said as she sat down, "Especially when you're the Great..."

"Shut up. You know I hate that," he retorted as he too took his seat opposite her.

"Mmm," she sighed, "You hate fame. You hate attention. Yeah, typical male hating all eyes on him. Particularly all _female_ eyes."

He gaped, "I do hate attention..." he started in protest.

"You don't!" she exclaimed, "And you use it to your advantage every single Saturday night."

"Are you saying I'm gonna use my fame and fortune to wheedle you into my bed tonight?" he said, raising an eyebrow at her suggestion.

She smirked, resting her elbows on the table and clasping her hands together, "I'm saying you'll coax that poor boy into your bed. We all know you have homosexual, paedophilic tendencies and that you _can't resist,_" she added seductively.

He mimicked her movement, and he moved closer to her, "You got me in a nutshell."

She laughed and edged back from the intensity as she grabbed the bottle of wine already on the table, "I know you too well Mr Potter."

"Here," he said as he took the bottle away from her, "I'll do it. Your weak girl muscles can't cope."

She shook her head and snatched the bottle back, "I think you'll find I WILL be able to do it. I'm not a damsel in distress as much as you want me to be."

She struggled to take the top off the top, contorting it in all directions causing Harry to laugh, "But I am your knight in shining armour."

He took the bottle and opened it with one free and easy movement. He looked at Hermione as she sat not looking impressed, "I could have done it, you know. It just would've taken time."

"Hmmm..." he grumbled as he poured the blood red liquid into her glass and then his. Placing the bottle on the table, he spoke again, "Do I not get my reward now?"

She smiled and once again leaned forwards making the moment much more intense, "What did you have in mind?"

He smiled and leaned forwards wiping the drop of wine from the outside of the bottle, "Oh... I don't know. How about a..."

"HARRY! HERMIONE!" shouted a blonde woman from the other side of the restaurant.

"Luna!" Hermione exclaimed as she got up from the table to greet the couple.

Harry got up as well, following Hermione to the pair. He greeted Luna with a kiss on the cheek, "You're looking very lovely tonight dear."

"Ooo Harry," she said jokingly, "Aren't you the devil!"

"Hello Harry," said Neville from behind the blonde, "How you doing mate?"

"Not bad, not bad Neville," he replied.

"Shall we sit?" said Hermione, gesturing them towards the table.

The four of them sat down and Harry poured wine into the other two's glasses. Luna withdrew her glass, "None for me Harry thanks. I'm trying to... umm... cut down."

"Go on Luna," he replied, "It's your favourite!"

"No, no," she said as she shook her head, "I... can't."

"No?" Hermione exclaimed, "Are you?"

Luna blushed, "We're trying."

"Really?" she said excitedly, "But I thought..."

"No. We are now!" Luna replied, "Well I am."

Both women shrieked simultaneously which saw confused looks shot from Harry, "How do they understand each other? They don't even finish sentences and yet they know what each other are saying," he said to Neville.

"It's like they are psychic. They have the sixth sense," Neville replied as he took a gulp from his glass.

Harry cleared his throat, "Ahem. Can you please start being normal so we can order? I'm starving."

Hermione shot a piercing look at Harry, "I'll have the ravioli," she said before turning back to Luna.

* * *

The wine had seemed to flow all evening, and by the time it had reached 11 o' clock, Harry, Hermione and Neville were a little bit more than tipsy.

"Betcha can't balance a spoon on your nose," Harry slurred.

"I challenge you!" Neville said back as he held his spoon up in the air. He was almost imitating a Pokémon battle scene.

Hermione giggled and leaned forward to Harry. She blinked slowly – her eyelids skimming over her glazed-over eyes, "You will fail and disappoint me."

He leaned forward to her, their faces only centimetres apart, "I thought I was your knight in shining armour?"

She smiled, "Then maybe you should carry me back to your castle."

"I'm afraid I don't have a noble steed," he whispered back.

"Apparation will be enough," she smiled seductively.

He fished for galleons in his pocket and slammed them on the table. He turned to Neville who had a spoon hanging from his nose who spoke, "HAAAA. I told you I could do it."

"Yeah well," Harry said, "I'm taking Hermione home."

"Shh," Hermione whispered with a finger over her mouth, "It's a secret."

Neville and Harry burst out laughing at her remark. Luna rolled her eyes, "I hate this. I wish I'd drank now. Screw trying to get pregnant."

Neville turned to his wife, "I love you," he slurred.

Luna smiled, "You're so cute when you're drunk."

"Does that mean I can get into your knickers now I've said the right thing?" he slurred.

"Of course," she laughed before standing up. She put her half of the bill on the table.

"I'm going for a shaaaaaaaag!" Neville shouted at the restaurant which made Harry burst out laughing.

"That makes one of us," he replied truthfully.

Hermione smiled, "I'll join Neville and Luna. I like fun."

"I think Harry should get you home," Luna said to her before turning to Harry, "Will you be okay?"

"I'm not a Squib, Luna. I am capable of something," he replied.

The money for the bill had been put on the table and the wine had been drunk, so the four of them left the restaurant. Neville had a sluggish arm over Luna's shoulders; done more for effect of keeping him upright rather than an affectionate gesture. Harry had his arm around Hermione as they sloppily dragged their feet out of the restaurant. They exchanged pleasantries outside the restaurant and quickly Apparated away.

Hermione and Harry arrived outside Harry's house; "Umm..." he said shyly, "Do you want to come in for a shag... I mean a coffee? Coffee not shag. Coffee."

She smiled, "I'd very much like that."

He unlocked the door and opened it for her, "After you," he said.

"Thank..." she thanked, tripping into the house.

Harry's seeker reflexes kicked in – even when completely intoxicated, they were still better than your average wizard when sober. He caught her just before she hit the ground.

"Compromising position," she said their faces inches apart.

"Definitely," he replied, keeping her in the same position.

"So, so compromising..." she said, her voice nothing more than a whisper.

He edged closer to her – his voice diminishing in volume as the space between them became almost nonexistent, "I have to agree."

She leapt up and kissed him hungrily causing him to fall on the ground, "Let's do it. Let's do **IT**."

Harry didn't hesitate and started to rip off his shirt, turning his back to her. By the time he had turned around, she had passed out on the floor.

_Great_, he thought.

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**A/N: Do you know what's great? Ben and Jerry's ice cream. Do you know what else is great? REVIEWS. **


	5. Chapter Four

**A/N: **I have just returned from the land of Espagne, so this might be a little rushed and not to my best abilities. I have done a little research on the tinterweb for this chapter, so excuse me if you have seen any of these ideas before and I apologise if this potential infringes copyright – although I see no reason why it should. I don't mean to sound predujice against women – I am one myself. I'm just trying to capture the mind of a regular male. Please tell me if I am grasping it properly? Review or PM would be nice. Also, it's a little short, I know.

**Disclaimer: **I'm not rich. Nuff said.

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**Chapter Four**

Five reasons why men are better than women:

5. Men do not have Tourette Syndrome

I believe all women suffer from a mild and extremely localized form of Tourette Syndrome. The afflicted organ? Their tongues. That's why women cannot shut their fucking mouths for ten seconds while adults are speaking around them. Their tongues are battling around in their mouths like drunken Vipers.

4. Women are racists

Women's entire lives and social circles are based around hatred. Do they hate their boyfriends? Do they hate their wardrobe? Do they hate each other? Yes, yes and fuck definitely. Men don't go in for that silly sort of nonsense. If we're dissatisfied, we pick up and move out. Or we take our mighty man muscles and lift fucking mountains so the world looks exactly the way we want it to. Men do more world changing phenomena before 9am than any woman ever has done in her whole life.

3. Jesus was a man

Whether or not you believe in Jesus, there is one fact you can't argue with: he was a man. No religion anywhere has ever put a woman in charge of shit. That's called dogma — man-dogma — and it means men are better than women.

2. Men wear watches

Do you know why men wear watches? It's because there's a limited amount of time in the day and men need to know how much of it there is so they can efficiently allocate their man arse kicking for the day. Women don't wear watches; they wear bracelets. Women wearing bracelets is like dropping a bus of retarded kids off in front of a taffy pulling machine. They can just stare for hours and never get bored. A bracelet says, 'You're most likely ugly, but look at how much money you're worth!' A watch says, "I don't have enough time in the day to carry out all my important Quidditch watching and procrastination."

1. Men destroy things

The only thing that has ever lifted our species out of the trees where we came from is our ability to destroy. Take paper: the cornerstone of the modern world. That was invented because man wanted to destroy trees and beat them into pulp. How about nuclear power? Men invented that too. Men are natural destructors. We pop right out of the man-womb and start on a life-long tirade of progress by tearing down the Earth with our mighty, man-manly man-fists. Merlin, that's awesome!

And yet all these reasons that men are better than women still don't answer the reason why we need them in our lives so much. Is it the fact that we need someone to cut our toenails or tell us that they are feeling fat and that they need to diet? Or is it just the fact that we need someone who makes you want to shove your testicles in a vice just for that added extra zing in your life? Whatever it may be; the thing that drives us crazy is that oestrogen. And by Merlin, I would do anything to unlock the secrets of the female pituitary gland.

For the second morning in a row, Harry Potter had awoken on the floor by his front door – still in the same position he had passed out in the night before. His soft, rhythmic breathing stopped as he slowly appeared alive again. His arms stretched up behind him as he stifled a yawn. As he tried to stand up, he realised that there was a female draped across his legs completely away with the fairies.

He nudged her, "Hermione," he said groggily, "Get up."

He rubbed his eyes and nudged her again. She still remained fast asleep – forcing him to be completely inept in movement. Sighing he spoke again, "Get your fat arse off me."

Her eyes flashed open, "What did you just call me?"

Oh shit, he thought. He quickly responded, "I said get your _nice _arse off me."

She raised one eyebrow, "Nice arse? Care to explain Potter?"

Bollocks, he thought, I wish I'd have just stuck with the _fat arse_ now, "Look, whatever. Just get your arse off me, regardless of whether it is nice or what."

Shoot me now, he thought, I'm just getting deeper and deeper into this.

"Stop digging your hole," she smiled, "I heard you the first time. I will get my _fat _arse off you."

He sat, mouth agape, "I didn't really mean you had a fat arse. It's... I meant... Euuuuurgh. It's too early for talking."

He flung himself back on the floor, his face flat on the mahogany wood below him. He could feel a blush creeping across his cheeks, so he quickly wrapped an arm around the edge of his face and pretended to be asleep. She smiled at his response and carefully pulled herself off him and stood up. She looked at his naked back and her eyes widened, "Why are you topless? Any why is my zip on my dress undone?"

"Shit," he muttered.

She stood over him, "Did we do **IT** last night?"

He turned his face to the side, away from her direction, "I don't think so..."

"Harry James Potter," she started, "Did we... you know... last night?"

"I don't know," he replied, honestly, "I don't remember anything apart from that waiter's poor attempt at trying to bed you last night."

She sighed and bent to grab her shoes that had been discarded and flung to the other side of the hallway, "I don't even remember that."

He laughed, "Have you got any underwear on?"

"What?" she exclaimed, "What type of question is that to ask a women at..." she checked her watch for reference, "11am?"

"Answer the question," he replied as he stretched his arms and pushed himself to a sitting position, his back still facing her, "I won't look. Promise."

There was a pause, "Okay. I have."

"Good," he said, "That means we didn't shag."

He stood up, his eye level meeting hers and slowly advancing a couple of inches taller. She opened her mouth to speak, but no words came out.

"Hermione dearest," he said as he brushed a stray curl from her face, "If we'd have shagged I would have at least got into your knickers. It's not as if I could get it in..."

"Stop there you vulgar man," she said before turning in the direction of the kitchen, "I really don't want to know anymore."

"You asked," he muttered as he grabbed his shirt from the floor and flung it through the doorway of the living room as he walked past it.

"Tea?" she asked from the kitchen.

"To be honest, I could do with something a little stronger..." he muttered.

She smiled as her back was facing him, "Tea it is then," she smirked.

Handing him the tea, they both took seats in the living room. Harry took a mouthful from his mug, "So... you never did tell me why you cancelled on me the other day?"

Harry took a mouthful from his mug, "So... you never did tell me why you cancelled on me the other day?"

She laughed, "Well..."

Suddenly, there was an ear splitting crack and a canine patronus entered the room. Its silver paws glided over from the doorway, leaving no imprint. It faced Harry and spoke, "This is a reminder from the Minister of Magic about next week's Ministry Employment Ball. The Minister has assumed that you will be attending due to the lack of reply; and has assigned you a seat. He hopes you will attend this time."

With the end of rehearsed speech, the patronus left the room with a farewell in the form of, "Shit. I forgot about that."

"The Ministry Ball? How come you have been invited?" Hermione asked Harry.

"Why wouldn't I have been invited? I am the Great Harry Potter, remember?" he said sarcastically, "I've done more for society than half the people in the world combined will ever do in their lives."

"Haha," she said with a fake tone, "You are so hilarious."

He looked at her with a straight face, "I'm being serious. Half the people in the Ministry think that my job entails telling stories about my successes, planning future successes and saving the world from evil Horcrux-ed Super Warlocks."

"Do they not actually know you work at Hogwarts?" she said surprisingly.

"Oh dear Merlin no! As if they would ever believe that! The Great Harry Potter working at some standard job? They think it's all a cover up for some secret "saving the world" plan," he joked.

"How stupid. They really don't want you to have a normal life do they?" she laughed.

"They think I shit Galleons. What more can I say?" he said, standing up and taking the two empty mugs into the kitchen, "Do you want another one?" he called.

Hermione fiddled nervously with her dress, "No. I should be off."

He placed the kettle on the bench, "Fair enough," he said under his breath as he walked back.

"Well," she said, stammering her words as she met him in the hallway in front of the door, "This is awkward."

He stood in front of her, "Well, I think what you are supposed to say is that you had an excellent night last night, and that you want to do it again some time."

"Okay. I had an excellent night Mr Potter. We should definitely meet up for tea and crumpets again," she said formally.

"Is that what it's known as these days? "Tea and Crumpets"? I don't know how my manly parts relate to that..." he said, looking at the floor and then meeting her eyes with his.

"It's because you don't have any, and I am going to tell the world," she said, half smiling and half laughing.

"What if I pay you?" he said nervously.

She raised an eyebrow at his statement, not fully understanding what he was meaning, "How?"

He took a hold of her hands, "Well this is usually how I do it..."

His brain was running wild. Sober and completely in control, he kissed her. And for the first time, he felt more than just alcohol compelling him to crush his lips to another woman's. He felt the need. More than just a want to forget it all. A need for her to be so close. It might have only lasted two seconds, but it was the two seconds of his life that would allow him to produce such a powerful patronus that it would cover the world. For the first time in his life he felt complete.

She pulled away from him, resting her forehead on his and whispered, "I can't do this."

She took her bag from the floor where it had fallen in the moment and opened the door slightly. She looked back at him and smiled, "I'm sorry. I really am."

She opened the door fully and stepped outside leaving a bewildered Harry in her tracks. It was only when she turned around when reality hit her like a bullet in the back. Lights shot from every direction and camera shutters pierced her ears for minutes. Temporally blinded from the sudden attack, she stumbled forward into the crowd of people and into the swarm of questions. She would deal with their much wanted answers once she'd answered her very own question: What the hell was that?

* * *

**A/N: Well, I bet you didn't see that coming. Let me tell you something: neither did I. I just felt the compulsion to put it in. No fireworks and no cheesy lines. All just pure BELIEVABLE happenings. Please give me a review – without them, I can't breathe and you don't want me to die, do you? YES? Yes, I hear you say? Great. I'll just abandon the story then... **


	6. Chapter Five

**A/N: Yesterday afternoon when I was writing, I was suffering from a bit of mental writers' block. Cue knight in shining armour to rescue me from the deep depths of baking my way out of my metaphorical pit of darkness to revive me back to sanity and wap me on the road to succession. I would like to say a big thank you to my dear friend Ruth (who's fanfiction name is Ruthcha) for helping me whilst making cakes. If you have anytime, check out some her stories in the near future. She is a newbie to the website, so make her feel at home. Thanks. **

**Anyway, on with the story. I'm getting a lot of hits on this story, but not a lot of reviews. I don't know if it's because the story isn't to your taste, but whatever. A little birdy told me not to worry about how many reviews I'm getting. I know the last chapter seemed a bit rushed, but I hope this one isn't as bad. LATEE I know. I know I promised one by last week, but I've had mental AND writers' block. It's not funny AT ALL this chapter. I'm sorry. I needed a serious one to set things straight in MY world of Harry Potter. **

**Disclaimer: ****Albus Severus? I'm not retarded. **

**

* * *

****Chapter Five**

Women. One thing that these sheep share is their over active imagination and ability to keep their emotions turned on at every opportune moment. Someone dies and they cry for weeks. Us "real" men never cry. The closest thing to this crazy attitude we get is feeling a little glum inside. And do you know why? It is because we can switch all emotions off in a flash. We don't need to feel that longing emptiness of a loss of a loved one. We don't need to constantly recall that date rejection. We need to only experience things once and forget them – subjecting them to their unconscious sector of our mighty minds.

Everyone hates women once in a while. Hate is such a strong word, but it is appropriate for expressing how people sometimes feel in their lives. I, personally, despised women for their naivety, and there false pretenses that would come off as "lame" to me. These false pretenses strayed far from the reality in which I lived in. Their false pretences all starts at a young age. Every child has a pet and when that pet dies, suddenly males separate from females and that constant hatred and rivalry begins. Boys jump on the grave and enjoy digging that hole to bury them in. Girls fall weak to their knees, pretend to faint and use it as an excuse to pig out on several tubs of Ben and Jerry's Cookie Dough.

Most men believe that it is a fact that men don't cry because we are stronger than women. We have bigger biceps and stronger hearts allegedly. The actually fact is that we are embarrassed to show emotions. So cue the barrier we have developed over the years. Father figures and men around the world have been taught from a young age that it makes you weak. And "men is caveman. Scream and make fire. Oooh ah ah. Grunt grunt. Football football. Sleep. Lager. Sex" not happy bunnies and rainbows.

But sometimes we do cry. Nobody ever in their lives will willingly admit that they do, but they would do. If we cry and nobody is there to hear it, it isn't crying. It's just like nobody will admit giving people genital herpes or listening to classical opera. It just doesn't happen. So next time when you are balling your eyes out don't ask us why we aren't because you already know the answer. We'll be sobbing in the shower later or just drink yourself and shag some random minger senseless until we forget about it all.

* * *

Hermione Granger sat in Madam Rosmerta's cafe alone. It was a rare sight for the young woman. Usually she was in with friends, or every Tuesday afternoon she was in with Harry; but for once she just wanted to be by herself. It had been three days since the incident. Three days since she was temporally blinded as she stepped out of _HIS _house. It was all herfault in the end, she had concluded. And yet, as much as she wanted to pin the blame on his developed, muscular chest; she couldn't. It was her fault for cancelling the meal with him to blow it off for a date with some guy from the office. It was her fault that she had organised a make-up meal with Neville and Luna. It was her fault for wearing a provocative neckline on her dress. It was her fault for unknowingly entrancing the young boy. Ah, the young boy, she thought. He's just like Justin Bieber: puberty is going to hit him like a train.

She laughed at her own joke which earned her a few stares from the other people in the tea room. She looked down and hid her face from them. She most certainly did not need another question about how her and Harry's so-called "love life" was going, if she was recovering well from her miscarriage of sextuplets and if she was going to endorse a new perfume as a result of her sudden rise to fame. Eau de bookworm, was she going to call it?

She took a sip from her rose patterned china mug – Rosmerta had always loved the finer crockery in life. She was always one for paying attention to detail. In some ways, Hermione admired her patience. You could just tell how much passion she had for the frosting of her cakes, or the perfectly formed rose biscuits. Hermione longed for the love and care that she put into her food. You could almost taste the affection in her almond applebakes.

Taking a bite into her strawberry cupcake, she accidently dropped some of the icing onto her book which she had been reading. Puberty had made her lose a lot of things – the bad haircut, the bucked teeth and her virginity, but not her love for reading. She always carried a book with her wherever she went just to touch up on a little "light reading." It would explain her constant bad back – light reading often meant the whole Lord of the Rings Trilogy stacked into one book and flung in a shoulder bag.

"Shit," she said under her breath as she tried to remove the pink goo from the parchment paper, "Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit!"

The door opened to the cafe and the little floating bell rang. Hermione's head snapped up at the ringing and saw a tall, raven haired man step through. He turned round and her eyes met with his bespectacled ones.

"Shit," she repeated. She clambered up hastily which caused her to knock her bag and its contents all over the floor.

She looked at the floor, then looked at him and then back at the floor. She knelt down on the rosewood floor and started to grab everything up. Her head frantically moved its attention from the advancing person to her entire contents of her hand bag. Her breath started to quicken and it seemed to become short, shallow and more frequent breaths which caused her to panic.

"Ah hem," she heard him clear her throat. She dropped all her belongings onto the floor again being startled by his voice, "Hermione?"

She kept her attention on the floor and took silent, deep breaths as she attempted to put everything back in its place. Ignoring him, she thought, yes. Ignoring him will do just fine. That way I don't even have to say the stupid things that have been rolling around my head. Ten seconds passed, but it felt like an eternity.

"Hermione," he started again in an attempt to break the cold, icy silence between them.

She sighed and put her now full bag onto the floor, keeping her attention as far away from him as possible, "What?" she snapped.

"Ermm," he trailed off, "I was going to ask you if you wanted a hand..."

"Why would I want a hand?" she interrupted, "I'm perfectly capable of doing things myself. I'm not helpless and some damsel in distress Potter."

He winced at the spitting of his surname from her perfectly pink lips. She bit the air with the venom that seemed to be spouting from her mouth, "I don't need you."

Her eyes broke the gaze with the table leg and hit his face like daggers, "I really shouldn't be doing this," she muttered to herself.

The moment her eyes met his, her sharp exterior crumbled to dust. She could feel her heart beating wildly in her chest and the dry lump of nothingness making its way up her parched throat. She swallowed at a try to keep herself together but all she could taste was remorse and guilt – nothing was there to spur her on. She had to do it herself.

Her face softened as her eye level met his. Her mouth opened, but the words she had rehearsed wouldn't make their way out of her mouth. It was his turn to speak, "Hermione..." he trailed off.

He stopped as looked at him again, "No, Harry. Don't do this..." she pleaded.

"Hermione," he said as he paused to clear his throat, "We need to... _talk._"

It took Hermione a few minutes to digest and process his words into what she though he meant. Looking up at him, she replied, "No Harry. We don't. I don't need to hear your words. You may be sorry for calling up the paparazzi..."

"I'm sorry, what?" he exclaimed.

"You rang the press. It's obvious, don't deny it," she said in a matter-of-fact tone.

"What?" he said, completely bewildered, "Why would I call the press?"

She opened her mouth to speak and then promptly stopped herself. Why would he call the press? She spoke, "I don't know, you tell me?"

He edged closer to her, bridging the gap that had widened over the past three days, "I can assure you that I didn't call the press for whatever bizarre reason you think I did."

She stepped back from him. This was becoming way too uncomfortable. Awkward was a better word to use. The little things that they shared and the little things that had developed and had become natural had all been reviewed in a second. What was it that he wanted from her? When had his feelings changed from purely platonic to loving in a relationship way?

"I really don't need this right now..." she explained to him as she took her bag from the table.

"Need what?" he asked, "Need me explaining how much I..."

"Don't..." she whined, "Don't you dare finish that sentence."

He took a deep breath and took the plunge. He'd already messed it all up, so what would those three little words do to make such a big difference, "Love you."

She nodded meekly and made her way for the door.

"Hermione, don't leave..." he said from behind her.

She turned around and her face had an unfathomable expression plastered across it, "Harry. Don't make this harder than it already is."

She made her way towards him and backed away from the door, "Don't waste those three words on me. I don't need deserve them Harry. I can't..." she took a sharp intake of breath, "I can't return them to you Harry in the way that you want me to."

There were several chokes from the silent cafe. Unknowingly, they had all become engrossed in this so-called "lover's tiff" and had dropped their spoons and mugs onto the tables. Melted ice cream and pastry dropped onto the floor.

"Oh."

That word was all he could say. Wasn't the Great Harry Potter meant to just get the girl in any way he wanted? Wasn't he meant to say those words and then she would love him too?

"No. Isn't this supposed to be how it works," he muttered.

"Harry, I'm not gonna declare that I loved you since you saved me from the troll, or since first year, or if it was fate. And I know that you are not gonna say you loved me since the Yule Ball, or since the end of the battle, because I know you didn't," she looked up at him and cupped his cheek, "You can't put a time limit on love. You can't just say that you loved me since the dawn of the dinosaurs or suddenly realised you loved me as soon as you saw me in a dress. And that's why I can't love you back," she stopped for a breath, "Harry, I love you as a friend, but I'm not _in love _with you right now. I haven't fallen for you yet."

She took his hand from his pocket and put it beside him keeping it in her hand. She rubbed her thumb over the back of his hand and let go. Words couldn't explain what was happening right now.

She left. She didn't leave with him. She didn't leave with a need to suddenly make passionate love to him. She left him with an understanding. That's how the real world works.

* * *

**A/N: Urrrrgh. This chapter is shit. I might rewrite it. I just felt like I needed to put a chapter up, regardless of its state. I might take it down. I dunno. Review would be nice... **


	7. Chapter Six

**A/N: I hope you guys are liking this story as much as I am enjoying writing this ficlet. I think that I might only end up writing ten chapters in all (not including the prologue) but I am thinking of writing a sequel in the near-ish future. Anyway, that is ages away. Take it away Harry Potter!**

**Disclaimer: ****Nuff said. **

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* * *

****Chapter Six**

Talking in public. Well, to be honest talking in general. What can I say about it? Apart from the fact that I can't do it very well, there's nothing else to say. After the "Great War" people wanted me to make a speech. And, for the first time in my life, I found out I couldn't do something. I can't speak to people without getting nervous. And by nervous I mean a shit-my-pants feeling overcomes you. Palms sweat and the underlying compulsion to vomit forces you to wretch up yesterday's cheese and ham toastie. I suddenly become really cynical and sceptical of what people think of me whether it may be, "Look at the size of his dick" or "I wouldn't mind a piece of him in me". I start getting paranoid. Then suddenly, I can't keep running through this wall anymore and I stop and walk away.

The most annoying this is that I suddenly lose all capability to speak. Mind drains every word that is longer than five letters and drags all these filter ummms and ahhhs into the conscious sector. No matter how much I prepare and no matter how much I write and practise; at the end of the day my literate mind falls out of my arse and I look like I should be in a mental care home. And this one time at band camp... well, this one time at this conference actually, I had experienced my worst case of vomit compulsion and stage fright combined that I puked on all three of the women on the front row. Do you want to know the best thing? I still managed to sleep with them. And that's why they call me the Great One. I'm not the Great One for remembering names. They all had great tits and arse though.

That kiss though. For the first time in my life, I was nervous to the point where I felt I was gonna die from lack of water. Seriously. Sweat poured out of every orifice. I was kinda expecting her to look as if she had emerged from a bath when she pulled away; her hair plastered to her forehead. The "wet look" really does it for me. Just like an arse that would put Kim Kardashian to shame.

All I have to do is get past all this. I need to woo her. It's more than a want, and more of a need. I need to be her perfect man. That geek with facial stubble and a cheeky, awkward smile like I'd just farted in an enclosed space. I need to get rid of those two left feet and suddenly develop a penchant for music. I basically need to be Jesus in trousers.

Hermione Granger apparated outside her flat – she had put anti apparition wards around it. You never did know who was standing around the corner, watching you take your knickers off or getting too excited when you ate an ice cream. She shoved the keys into the door and violently jerked them in an anti clockwise direction. Hastily, she pulled them out the door and reached to push the door open. All her violently inspired behaviour had took everything out of her and now she was meekly pushing the door open to her house with as much force as a six month old child. She felt her heart clench and the dry lump to rise up her throat. She needed to get inside.

She shut the door behind her, "What have I done?" she screamed, "What the bloody hell have I done?"

She attempted to hit the wall, but she missed and hit the stair banister instead. She pulled her arm to her chest which had gone limp at the touch and attempted to nurse the pain. The shock broke the barrier and she choked the tears back. She had to be strong, not just for herself, but for the sake of him. She couldn't let him know how hard it was to do that. But it was for the better. Without him being so close to her, she could start to live the normal life that she had longed for ever since normality drifted away. She could live in a house and not be constantly hounded by press and paparazzi. She could go on a date to an ice cream shop with some bloke from work, and she could sit in peace and not have people constantly coming up to her.

It would just be easier.

She gasped at her last thought, "What a lame excuse that is," she spoke to herself, "What stupid, stupid, stupid, lame and dim-witted moment made me say that?"

She run her hands down her face and drew out her features as she stood and faced the mirror in the hallway. She slid them down so they met at the back of her neck and cradled her head. Her elbows met several inches in front of her face and she rested her chin in the space where her two wrists met and put her head down. She studied her scuffed black shoes and her opaque black tights. Such morbid and dark colours. When had her happy and "Voldemort free" life left her? When had she stopped smiling? The wall had hit her.

"What have I done?" she said her eyes looked up from the floor and met the gaze of the stranger imprinted in glass in front of her.

Was this what she wanted? Life had become a chore. Work had started and she had to schedule happiness – priority behind charms and wizardry, "Merlin..." she breathed.

After staring into the glass for few precious thought-induced minutes, she wiped her eyes and made her way up the stairs. She needed to get out of this shit-hole and start living her life again. Fuck schedules, she was going to put her happiness in front of the stuff she had prioritised for too long.

* * *

"So... Hermione. Fancy going for a drink tonight?" Harry said to himself in the mirror.

"No, that's all bloody wrong," the mirror replied, "Try adding a bit of intrigue to your voice. Maybe emphasising drink, or pausing?"

"I can't believe I'm talking to a mirror," he muttered under his breath.

"I heard that," the mirror said, "Now, try again. You are supposed to be good at everything aren't you?"

"Fuck this shit," he said as he conjured up a sheet and covered the frame, "If I want her to talk to me again, I can't keep bottling this entire crap up. I need to actually speak."

There was a pop and a knock on the door, "Can I come in?" a male voice spoke.

Harry turned his head to see Neville standing behind him, "Seems I don't need to send an owl post anymore. Here you are just _waltzing _into my house."

Neville laughed, "Nice to see you too."

Harry returned his laugh and joked, "I could be naked right now."

"No you couldn't be," Neville said slyly, "It's not a Saturday night, is it?"

"I suppose you're right," Harry said, "Butterbeer?"

Neville followed Harry into the kitchen, "Sure. What's the cause of celebration?"

Harry turned away from Neville as he looked into the fridge. He sighed and the smile vanished from his emotion-faking face for the matter of a few seconds before his tough exterior once again suited on his body, "Nothing. What's wrong with a butterbeer at..."

Neville interrupted as he consulted his pocket-watch, "Half four in the afternoon?"

"Exactly!" Harry mimicked, "Half four in the afternoon. Nothing wrong with that. It is a Sunday after all."

"Harry," Neville said, "You can't get plastered on a Sunday. You are _teaching _tomorrow. Teaching children that look up to you on a level not even Hermione could understand."

Harry flinched at the mention of her name and took a prolonged gulp from his now half-empty bottle. He managed to conjure a laugh from his suddenly speechless mind.

Neville noticed this, "Oh shit Harry. What in the name of Merlin have you done?"

Harry took another gulp. At this rate he would be drunk at quarter to five, "Nothing. Nothing has..."

Neville coughed which prompted Harry to speak, "I messed it up Nev. Big style."

There was a pause for thought, "I'm not gonna ask for all the details because you must have done something fuckly stupid to get her angry at y..."

"I kissed her," he simply stated.

"You what?" Neville asked, "But I thought..."

Harry took another glug from his drink as he spoke. And as he swallowed the honey liquid he shook his hand in protest, "No Nev. This is beyond platonic."

Neville stared at him, his mouth agape and his mind empty of remotely coherent words. There wasn't even enough words to construct a simple sentence.

Harry took a long intake of breath, "I told you."

"What? Why?" Neville stopped to clear his throat, "Well... I mean, did she kiss you back?"

"I- I don't know," he stammered, "I kinda got caught up in the moment."

Neville grabbed the full bottle of butterbeer from the work surface and promptly drained the contents within a matter of ten seconds. He needed alcoholic courage just to advise him on the situation. He couldn't even begin to imagine what Harry was going through, "You need to speak to her."

Harry laughed awkwardly, "I already have Neville, my friend."

Neville swirled the dregs in his bottle and looked at the liquid moving within the green bottle, "Whoever said that trying once is going to solve things?"

"Well..." Harry started.

"No, Harry," Neville stated, "Answer the question."

Harry was slightly taken aback. For the first time in his life he was wrong and he had someone to stand up to his. Shock to stardom much?

"Erm," he mumbled, "No-one?" he questioned the answer and hoped it would be right.

"Exactly, so get your arse over there and woo her like you have never wooed someone before," Neville pushed Harry towards the door, "And make it romantic? Possibly? Can you do that?"

Harry laughed, "Don't be stupid. I can't even speak to girls."

"Oh Merlin."

* * *

**A/N: Like it? Promise it gets better and they get together soon. Promise. I wouldn't have it any other way. I'm not deluded like JK. No offence. **


	8. Chapter Seven

**A/N: There's nothing more to say but thank you to all these anonymous reviewers! As the people who review this story know, I like to reply to all my reviews. So a big thank you to dolphin, Aslynne and Jess who have reviewed the last chapter. On with the story. The fluff is long awaited! **

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****Chapter Seven**

I wonder if we men understood just how much a woman enhances, nurtures, stimulates, develops, and changes our wayward animal maleness, would we be so willing to abandon our mates by betraying them? Sleep with other women? Sleep with their mother? Sleep with their sister and brother? Am I the only one, seriously? Maybe I shouldn't have mentioned that.

Let's face it. We men are pigs. We are filthy goats. We usually have only one thing on our minds. We are so one-track minded that it is a wonder we manage to ever get by in life. And that's why we need women in our lives. I can, personally, say anything about women – basically how much they annoy me and how complex they are – but nevertheless I cannot fail to conjure up new ways to insult them. But we are programmed to need that complexity. We are programmed to crave for that bit of mind boggling flesh rather than not want it in our lives. Even gay men need a woman to set them right – whether it is in choosing a partner, fragrance or a new man-bag. We still need them.

And that's why I have realised I need to settle down. Every man reaches that stage in their life where they realise that living alone with their 50 inch screen plasma and their microwavable meals. That is the stage, or rather to wall that I have reached. The question is how do I get through that wall? I don't want to be alone anymore.

I am sick of having to solve all problems with a fight or with creating new ways to damage my one and only liver (my worst enemy). I am sick of having to wonder what it is like to have that one person with you forever. And most of all, I am sick of having to do my own ironing. Joking, of course.

* * *

There was a knock at the front door of Hermione Granger's flat. Reluctantly, she got off her couch where she resided to spending her Sunday mornings, afternoons and evenings. Peeling herself away from her latest soppy rom-com books, that she had also reluctantly filled her Sundays with for the past couple of years, she padded bear foot to the front door. Taking a last look in the mirror at her scruffy ponytail, jeans and t shirt, she opened the door to see a floating lily in front of her.

"What an absurd sight," she whispered to herself as she leant in closer to study the flower.

She raised a hand to touch the stem which support the thin white petals which had just recently bloomed just to check it was real and as she did so, the flower turned to unveil a white luggage tag which was hanging off it. Her delicate fingers run over the white parchment and flipped it over to reveal scrawled handwriting that could have only been produced by a male.

"Follow the trail," she read off the paper, "Follow the trail? What trail?"

No sooner had she spoken her words, did more floating lilies appear in the direction away from the house. She grabbed her keys from the table in the hall and shut her front door behind her which self locked. Still barefoot, she took a hold of the first lily and made her way to the next one. The next one was in the middle of the road which her terraced house front gate stepped out onto. Checking there was no traffic coming, then realising what a stupid muggle reflex that was, she crossed the road, pausing in the middle to grab this lily. This time it was a soft, pastel pink colour and had a matching luggage label on it.

She turned it round and read the writing aloud once again, "Bet you're think this a stupid idea already. Trust me as much as you trust your books and keep moving and following the railings all the way around to the next clue."

She laughed. Whoever was sending these obviously knew her very well. Her heart flipped in her chest and started beating a little faster than usual. Then she realised, whoever set this up knew her down to her core. She suddenly felt naked and stripped off her inhibitions. Whoever "this person is" wanted her to trust her when she didn't even know. She smiled at her foolishness – this was so out of character and so... exhilaratingly romantic. She loved it.

Still barefoot, she made it across the road and was now standing on the hot cobbled paving that ran parallel to the road. Her back facing the street, her front was now facing black fencing to the park which stood in the centre of the square of houses that she lived in. Tall greenery and bushes ran inside the fencing which seemed to make it secluded and away from the hustle and bustle that living in a Wizarding city brought. She often spent her days off work there during the week with a glass of cold wine and a book, or occasionally just the glass of wine.

Following the lily's instructions, she followed the railings, tracing the black iron with her fingers. As she turned the corner she saw another lily, this time it was of a darker pink colour than the last. Yet again, another matching luggage label hang from the green stem. Moving forward to reach it, she saw it was in front of the gate which led into the secluded garden. She took the lily and once again read it aloud, "I'm closer than you think. Step through the gates and keep your eyes looking forward for the last clue."

She ran her fingers across the top of the gate, and used her other hand to undo the latch of the gate. Stepping through she saw the final lily – this time a deep red colour. She walked forward, the soft, damp grass bouncing off the soles of her feet as she moved. She kept her eyes forward on the lily and made her way towards it. She read the final note, "Close your eyes."

She grabbed the lily in the hand with the other ones she had collected, "I must be stupid to do this," she muttered aloud as she let her eyelids flutter shut.

As soon as her eyes closed, she heard footsteps behind her and flinched at the sound. She let the silence of five seconds fill the air and spoke, "Why did I do this? For all I know you could be an extremely compelling and clever mass murder."

She heard the person laugh deeply. She quirked her eyebrow, "At least I know you're a man."

The person laughed again and made his way so he was standing right behind her. His breath tickled the exposed neck her t shirt gave her as he spoke, "Guess who?"

She wanted to open her eyes so much, "How can I? I can't exactly see right now, can I?"

"Sight isn't the only sense you have. Of all people, I would think you would know that the most," he stated.

She sighed, "Can I turn around?"

He paused for thought, "Yes. No peeping though."

She spun on the balls of her feet and was now facing him. Her hands reached up and she felt a cotton t shirt which covered his broad chest. She ran her hands over the soft fabric, and then felt flesh. She immediately recognised these must be his arms. She slowly ran her fingertips over is forearms. He swallowed, "This is terribly intimate, isn't it?"

She laughed, her eyes still letting her hands do the sight, "It was your idea, wasn't it?"

"Suppose so," he replied as he hands reached his.

She ran her thumb over the back of his hand and suddenly stopped. She choked silently on her breath in her chest. She allowed her fingers to be entwined with his. He held firmly, "Open your eyes."

She did so, allowing her eyes to flutter open and make contact with his yellow t shirt that he seemed to be wearing. Hesitantly, she moved her eyes up to lock with his. She saw the black mop of hair, "Harry?"

His eyes locked with hers, "Yes?"

She exhaled sharply and suddenly felt speechless, "Harry?" she repeated.

He laughed, "Yes?" he repeated, mimicking her tone.

"You? This? What?" she stumbled, no coherent sentences seemed to leave her mouth.

"Shhh," he silenced her and placed a single finger over her mouth, "I want to say sorry."

"Sorry for what?" she asked, keeping her hand in his unconsciously.

"For being a complete and utter idiot," he laughed, "I shouldn't have kissed you. I shouldn't have just presumed that you were going to drop everything and love me back. I shouldn't have..."

She cut him off, "I want to say sorry for being so harsh."

He beamed down at her, "You haven't done anything wrong. And in the week that we've no spoken I realised that I would rather have your friendship than nothing at all. Would you like that?"

"I would like that very much," she smiled.

He pulled her away and led her to a picnic rug that he had laid on the floor with a hamper he had made. He looked at the rug and then looked at her, "This is to say sorry."

"Then I forgive you," she replied.

* * *

She bit at the end of the strawberry, her lips turning pink at the touch, "So," she said after swallowing her mouthful, "Who came up with the idea of the lilies?"

He smiled as he chewed on his ham sandwich, "You don't honestly believe that I would come up with something so inventive?"

"Harry," she stated matter-of-factly, "You're a guy. Guys don't do things like that."

"Nu uh," he replied, shaking his head, "That shit you call "romance novels" aka old women's masturbatory aid books have guys that are so romantic and spontaneous."

She cocked an eyebrow at his response, "Whatever you say Potter."

He held his hands up in the air, "Okay, okay. I'll admit it. It was Neville."

"Neville? Luna did always say he was a sucker for romance..." he trailed off.

Harry laughed again at his thought, "He told me he brushed up on his skills watching crappy Muggle American sitcoms in his spare time."

They laughed simultaneously.

"But seriously," he added, "I thought of the lilies, just not the whole floating, secret garden scenario."

She chewed on the second bite of her strawberry which she had put in her mouth as he spoke, "Why lilies?"

"Because they were my mother's favourite flower. And I thought that if my dad got a woman as beautiful and intelligent as my mum, then you would like them too," he said, "You know, in a strictly heterosexual sense of the word."

She looked into her ginger ale which sat in a clear plastic beaker, "I've never once doubted your sexuality. Ever."

"Glad to hear it," he smiled, "French fancy?"

"Mmm," she said, "Yes please."

He handed her the cake, "This has been nice, you know."

"Definately," she said as she leant over and planted a kiss on his cheek, close to the corner of his mouth, lingering a few seconds longer than she should have, "Thank you."

He moved his head in the direction of her touch, his eyes down. He brought his eye level to hers, "No, thank _you_."

She laughed briefly, and then realised the proximity in which they sat. She looked at his lips, and then up to his eyes which were clearly gazing into hers'. She edged closer and pressed her lips to his in a soft, chaste kiss. She tasted like strawberries and he tasted like magic.

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**A/N: YAY for fluff. My tummy started fizzing actually just writing the end of this. I'm smiling and happy now. Please review! **


	9. Chapter Eight

**A/N: Thanks again to the anonymous reviewers – Aslynne (again) and TheBest2010. I'm really glad that I've got so much positive feedback, so much so that I've decided to post another chapter. The one before the PENULTIMATE chapter. Yes, I know. The journey is nearly over. Keep reading. This chapter is a bit short, but hey! Take it away. **

**Disclaimer: ****This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books and Warner Bros. Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.**** Yes, a serious disclaimer for once. **

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****Chapter Eight**

Sexual addiction: a title that refers to the phenomenon in which individuals report being unable to manage their sexual behaviour. Harry Potter: a person who suffers horrendously from this "disorder". Well, not exactly. It's just extremely difficult to control my urges after so many years of just giving into it repeatedly. I'm so incredibly sad; I've even scheduled my fix into my week. It's also known as Saturday binge night – the most sacred ritual in every single wizard's life.

Weekends used to consist of Neville, Dean, Seamus and I fashionably pub crawling around Hogsmeade and ending up with several different lady-parts with faces... um... I mean "women". Started at eighteen and now I'm twenty six. Eight years seems a long time and when I think about it, I feel old. Maybe it's the fact that all the girls that I bump into and end up shacking up with have probably just left school. Or maybe it's the fact that when they ask if I want to do shots, and I have to literally force myself and go against the will of that niggling conscious that's shouting, "You don't need to Harry. You're already shit-faced and your liver won't survive." But then I sigh and say, "What harm is another mouthful of pure, unadulterated fermented glucose going to do?" Obviously not in those words. It's more of a "YAAAAAAAAAAAARGH" and an accompanying primitive cave man punch in the air. I embarrass myself, yes. All the time, but it's the vile liquid that I choke down that forces my male genitalia to speak; so I do anything that will let me drag her back to my house (or even the toilet cubicle if I am feeling that desperate).

It's the same every weekend and always has been. Seamus drifted off first. It was three years into the ritual and he met that Mediterranean belly-dancer who can keep her leg above her head infinitely and a wide enough mouth. Dean finally admitted he was gay and shacked up with the bar owner and part time male stripper one night and a year after wards we receive an invite to their wedding. It was camper than Christmas.

And then there was Neville. He stuck with me through it all. But, he too had to go and spend his nights with Luna. I miss him and I'm sure he misses me too but there's that time where every bloke has to grow up and face the facts that newly emerging women don't want to sleep with people who stop midway through because of their back. Not like that has happened yet, but I don't want to get caught in the act. So here I go, and here's to my last sex prowl. Marking the occasion, the originals have regrouped for the progression from the backstreets of Hogsmeade to Sokdon Alley. But don't worry, it may be pints in favour of shots; but it's not falling to the floor in favour of standing and shacking up.

* * *

Harry emerged from the bathroom with only a towel that had been wrapped around his navel. Steam escaped from the sauna heat and clashed with the air on the landing as he stepped out. The scent of spice and soap drifted from his damp chest. Stumbling barefoot from the bathroom with nothing but his sense of touch to lead him; he left a trail of wet footprints. He fumbled for his glasses and suddenly blurry vision once again became clear. He stood and for a rare moment he dared to look at his reflection in the mirror. The same face looked back at him.

Harry Potter hadn't really changed since he had moved on from Hogwarts. The same jet-black mop hung over his face and the same piercing eyes shone from behind his circular glasses. His nose was crooked from the amount of times it had been broken, but vanity hadn't persuaded him to be perfect just like every other "celebrity". His teeth weren't straight but then again it added to his kooky persona. And when his lips formed that awkward, lopsided smile – it took you back to the first train journey to Hogwarts. That happiness still remained in his heart.

Of course, Harry didn't really this. He just peered in closer to the mirror and ran a thumb over his cheek which elongated his face and opened his mouth. A soft covering of stubble covered his face (a blessing that puberty had brought) but yet he sighed. "I really should have shaved," he whispered to the reflection.

He pulled on his jeans and a polo shirt. Picking up the shirt that lay crumpled in the corner, he decided that he wasn't going to be bothered to iron it before he left, "Sack formality," he muttered.

Fumbling for the nearest pair of battered sneakers from under his bed, he laced them onto his feet and sprung from the mattress.

"Keys, phone, wallet," he mumbled under his breath, "Shit. Keys are downstairs in my Hogwarts bag."

He almost skipped down the stairs and over to his bag which stood on the table in the hall, perpendicular to the door. Searching through the bag, he heard a knock at the door. He immediately opened the door to see three men standing on the other side.

"HARRRRRY LADDDD," they shouted the moment he opened the door.

Harry jumped back, "Jesus. Nearly shit myself there."

"OHHHHHHHH HAAAAAARRRRY!" Dean sung, "YOU ARE THE SEXIESSST TEAAACHER EVER."

"You know mate," Seamus added to Dean's comment, "If I liked men, I'd be on you like a fatty on a cream cake."

"It's a good job you don't then. Dean on the other hand..." Harry trailed off.

Dean wobbled as he shook his head at Harry's remark, "I'm.. ummm.. s," he paused to hiccup, "poken fer."

"Come on," Neville sighed as he grabbed Harry's arm, "We're going out NOW. At this rate you'll be last pissed and we don't want that."

Harry laughed and pulled the door shut behind him as they dragged him down the steps that led to his house.

"Where we going then?" he asked.

Dean smirked, "Wait and see," he said as he produced a bashed, old looking teapot from behind his back.

Harry looked blankly at the artefact as the others grabbed a hold of some part of the tea pot. Neville looked at Harry's blank expression, "You really didn't think we'd apparate there, did you? Most of us have already had way over the weekly limit. I'm one for a piss up, but not one for breaking the law Harry."

Harry grabbed the handle of the tea pot and suddenly he found himself overcome with the unfamiliar Portkey-induced queasiness that didn't seem to subside at all. After what seemed seconds, there was four thuds to the ground, each a millisecond after another. Harry staggered up from the floor with Seamus and Neville quickly following suit.

Harry spoke, "So that's why I don't use them anymore..."

Neville laughed as he brushed the grass from his trousers and attempted to straighten the jumper that lay on top of his shirt, "Well, you did forget to close your eyes. I thought you'd remember that at least."

Seamus looked at Dean who remained face down on the floor – his arms and legs spread wide across the grass which faintly looked like the dewy greenery that daylight brought to it. His back moved slightly with the rise and fall of his chest at he breathed the cold, crisp night air.

Harry cleared his throat, "Ah hem. Dean?" he said quietly as he edged closer step by step to the apparent lifeless figure on the floor.

No sooner had Harry spoke those words did the body flip itself over in a sense like it had just been sparked by a naked wire. He sat up, his eyes staring forward into the darkness. He sat rigid. Harry cleared his throat again, "Are you..."

He was cut off as Dean opened his mouth, the same volume used as before, "I'M OKAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAY. I surv'ved th' war so I c'nn bloody sur've a por'key..."

He stumbled to his feet, swaying gentle side to side. Neville grabbed his arm and dragged him in the direction of the pubs.

* * *

Flashing lights accompanied cramped rooms and soon four men crashed through the front door. The sweet-sour smell of sweaty bodies and exotic cocktails filled Harry's airways and he suddenly felt calm and at home. He pushed through the crowd and flung himself onto the wooden surface of the bar. A tall, blonde waiter came up to him, "What can I do for you?" she shouted over the music.

The bass started to shake Harry and he could feel it pushing his heart. He dry swallowed, "Something strongly alcoholic and a butterbeer!" he shouted back.

With a flick of her wrist and a cock of the eyebrow, a tall glass appeared in front of his that was filled with a jade green liquid. He grabbed the glass and promptly slurped half. The liquid burned his throat and he could feel the colouring fizzing in his stomach, "Thank you," he cried as he slammed fifty sickles on the counter top.

He made his way over to the centre of the room where he saw a brunette dancing and Neville shouting at some work colleague. Pausing for a little more alcoholic courage, he drained the rest of the liquid from the glass quickly allowing the sickly sweet taste not to linger in his mouth for too long. He squeezed his eyes and lips shut at the sourness for seconds. He strode over to the girl. Last time out, so what's another random stranger going to do?

He started to dance with her, his body breaching the gap between them. She smiled seductively and joined his breach of the gap. Her long eyelashes fluttered to reveal a pair of brown eyes – his one and only weakness. He ran his fingertips down her right arm and took her hand is his. He slowly lifted it and placed it around his neck. Turning his head to her wrist, he drank her fragrant smell, closing his eyes at the touch. She smiled and took the lead by putting her other arm across his muscular back. Her skin seared against his as she touched the back flesh that was caused by his top riding up. He pulled her closer and she entwined his legs with his. This was all too easy. She was so much like his "Hermione" and she was so giving and willing to have him tonight.

The other side of the bar, a woman entered. Her curly hair tumbled past her shoulders and straps of her black dress. She looked around as if she was looking for someone – she knew he came here every weekend and she thought it would be the perfect opportunity. Her height prevented her looking over the masses of gyrating bottoms and boobs, so she pushed through the crowd to the bar.

"Excuse me?" she said in the direction of the blonde waitress, promptly realising that she needed to shout to be heard, "Excuse me?"

"Yes? What can I get for you?" the waitress replied.

"Have you seen a tall, black haired man come in here?" she said, carefully pacing her words so she wouldn't have to repeat herself, "He wears glasses?"

The waitress paused for thought putting her finger on her chin, "Hmmm," she added.

The waitress stood on a chair over the mass of heads and saw him on the dancefloor, "He's over there, dancing."

Dancing, she thought, since when did Harry dance?

"Thank you," she shouted as she made her way over to the centre of the pub.

She straightened her dress as she made her way through fumbling hands and exposed arses. She shook her head in an attempt to stop her frizzing with humidity; it was to no avail. She looked up from her shoes and that's when she saw it.

The fumbling hands she had witnessed on her way to the centre had nothing on this. Hands were groping and she saw a glint in his eyes that she had never saw before. It was like he was hungry for this starlet. He saw his hands frantically make their way up the woman's smooth, tanned legs. Her heart panged from her chest and she choked on air.

Neville's head snapped around at the sound and saw he standing there watching the "erotic display". He quickly made his way over to Harry and whispered in his ear as the woman with no decency continued to lower her hands. Harry's eyes drew wide and made contact with the woman standing there, her heart crushed on her sleeve.

"Hermione..." he breathed.

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**A/N: I'M SORRY. It had to be done. Review if you're not too angry. **


	10. Chapter Nine

**A/N: Before you read the chapter, here are the worst excuses for not updating when I said I would. First, I got my GCSE results this week, so celebrating had to be done. Secondly, I have been in the recording studio for two days so I have had no time. Third, I have had the worst case of writers block. Seriously. I know that last chapter I said that this would be the penultimate chapter, but I think it counts as the final. I might write an epilogue. So here it goes. Can you believe I have finished it? **

**Disclaimer: ****This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books and Warner Bros. Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.**

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****Chapter Nine**

Four things Harry wished would happen at the moment:

1) Fumbling in his pocket, Harry drew out a rusty pocket-watch. He unhooked the clinging "vagina" from his legs and made his way over to the stunned women. He let the chain from the watch slip through his fingers and grabbed it just before it hit the floor. Hanging from the chain was the watch. He dangled it in front of her face and started swaying it left to right. He opened his mouth to speak in soft, hushed tones whilst his eyes locked onto hers, "Look at the watch Hermione," he said as she followed his instruction.

He waited for her eyes to be completely transfixed on the gold before speaking again, "What you just witnessed never happened. And when I take you out of this hypnotising trance you will forget it every happened and then strip off all your clothes and make sweet, passionate love to me in the toilets."

2) And he was back in the room. He shook his head and reality set in. It seemed like he had been, almost, staring at the brunette with the captivating brown eyes, dreaming about what could be. Daydreaming about the normal, erratic behaviour that seemed to just come so normal to him and ruining it all. Ruining what he had with Hermione and I didn't want that.

She seemed to be staring back – in a strictly non stalker-like way, entrancing him without words. It was like she had an unspoken magnetic pull that was trying to draw him in. The music swayed with her hips and the longer she swayed, the closer he got. Her eyes hypnotised him. Drew him in to her lair just like before the kill. He blinked and jolted and tried to move his feet forward but they seemed to be cemented into the ground.

For a few seconds it felt like he was being drawn into the orbit of the semi-decent guys that were orbiting around her. They were the planets, and her eyes were the energy source. But he needed to go against the grain. He took a step back. See? It wasn't that hard. It suddenly became apparent – he needed to want to move away.

He broke the gaze, turned on his heel and pushed his way through the mass of bodies that were grinding faster and faster against each other as the seconds passed. Sweat that was dripping from his forehead seemed to lubricate his exit – almost making it easier to escape from the wrath of the brunette. For once he was going to do what was right, and not what felt so natural to. This night was all about leaving the past in the past and moving on. So, naturally, that's exactly what he was going to do.

3) Hermione stood open mouthed at the display. Her faced seemed to be paralysed in the shocked expression with her mouth hanging agape. As Harry locked eyes with her, she snapped out of her gaze. A small, sultry smile formed on her lips and she made her way over to the groping couple with a small swagger in her step. The twinkle in her eye reflected the hungriness that Harry felt only seconds ago for the other brunette. The glint had disappeared at Hermione's shocked expression but had reappeared at her joining of their presence. She pushed through the couple and started to mimic the actions of the brunette before. She pushed her hands down his torso, grabbed onto his belt and pulled herself closer. He felt her breath tickle on his ear as she whispered, "Get ready for a bumpy ride."

4) Harry looked at the solemn, heartbroken girl in the corner and all he wished was to disappear in a poof of smoke. But he couldn't. The only way to solve this was to lie and get away with lying. Harry unhooked the girl and stalked straight for Neville. He grabbed a hold of his face, his palm moulding with the cheeks of the man in front of him. He took his right hand from the cheek and curled it around Neville's neck which brings Neville's face closer to his. He jams his lips onto his in a painfully sweet kiss and draws his head back. Faces stared from all angles and Harry grabbed Neville's hand, "WE'RE HERE, WE'RE QUEER SO GET USED TO IT!"

The brunette storms over to the pair and gives them a pretty hard kick in the testicles. They fall to the floor, silently screaming in pain. 

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Hermione stormed out of the nightclub, her hair frizzing with rage and her eye blazing with fury. She stalked faster and faster away from the club, biting her bottom trembling lip. The doors of the club were flung open behind her and out ran the tall, raven haired man. She stopped dead in her tracks at the sound of his footsteps behind her. The heels of her Mary Jane's clicked together as she brought her feet to a standstill and she dropped her large black bag to the cobbled street beneath her. The clatter it made cut the tension in the air. Harry braced himself and stopped in his tracks, merely steps behind her.

She looked straight ahead into the darkness, her back facing him, "What do you want?" she asked, her voice cracking on the second word. She coughed to cover her melancholic hurting.

"Hermione..." he breathed, "Just let me speak."

She laughed and he saw he shoulders shaking, "Harry, when have I ever not let you speak? I'm not even shouting or anything, and yet you say that as a shit cover up to what you're gonna say next. So go on," she paused for effect and spat the next words like venom, "SAY IT!"

"It's not what you think," he explained expressively, weakly cowering at her anger as he trailed off.

She spun on her heel and her eyes pierced through him, "Don't even give me that shit," she spoke softly, "I wasn't born yesterday Harry."

He bit his bottom lip and cracked, "So what do you want me to say? That I regret it? That I wouldn't have taken it further?"

She cut him off, "Yes," she answered him apathetically.

"I'm not going to lie. A sleaze, I may be. A liar, I'm not," he said.

"Whatever Harry!" she shouted back, "I spent years by your side. YEARS watching you and helping you. Don't deny what you are. You've always had to lie to protect yourself and to protect others – but what use is lying now? What are you gaining from it Harry? Ey?"

She glared at him, her eyes daggers, as she waiting for him to reply.

"I..." he stuttered as his mind became devoid of words, "I.."

"You 'what' Harry?" she spat.

"I..." he stopped himself and took a step forward, "I..."

Sighing he answered her, "I don't know."

She let out a laugh and shook her head before grabbing the handles of her bag, "I waited years for you Harry. YEARS! And now you just expect me to drop everything and forgive you? Do you?"

He left the silence linger seconds longer than it should have. Hermione stayed cemented to the position she stopped talking in, "No," he answered meekly, "I want you to let me explain."

"EXPLAIN WHAT EXACTLY?" she shouted, "Explain how you played me on? Explain that you never actually intended to have more than me than fucking slap and tickle?"

"Hermione," he breathed, "Just..."

"Fine," she said cutting him off, "Do you this so-called explaining. I want to hear what pathetic excuse you come up with this time."

He looked at her in disbelief, "This is ridiculous. I'm arguing with a girl."

No sooner had he said those words did he wish that he could eat them back up again. Hermione's glare intensified, "You REALLY shouldn't have said that."

She flung the straps of her bag over her shoulder, straightened the skirt of her dress and walked two steps away from him before stopping and turning back to stare at him. Her mouth opened to speak and she blinked back the tears. She couldn't speak.

"What were you going to say?" he asked her as he moved closer to here as her sharp exterior crumbled at her feet.

"I..." she started.

She looked down at her shoes and fumbled with her hands, "I..." she stuttered again before looking up into his eyes with honesty radiating from her eyes, "I was falling for you."

His eyes lit up, "But..."

"No Harry," she spoke again, "I was falling for you and all you had to show for it was a whore gyrating on your leg. I came to the club tonight to tell you this. I went against the wishes of Luna and everything. She said that I shouldn't tell you, but you know what? What's really going to make this any better than it already is? We've already gone too far to go back to friendship? What type of friendship is this anyway?" she babbled, "What is _this_ Harry? Why would you take me on a picnic, send me flowers and tell me that you loved me if you didn't want me? Why did you lie..."

She was cut off as he grabbed her by the shoulders and placed a hungry kiss on her lips. He squeezed his eyes in anticipation, hoping that by doing this he could show her how he felt – he was never one for being good with words.

She grabbed the collar of his polo shirt and started to deepen the kiss before pushing him away from her, "What the hell was that for?"

He looked at her, once again not knowing what to say, "Ummm."

"Shut up and kiss me again," she said as she pulled him closer to her.

The kiss came alive with rage and fury and anger burning inside of them. Tongues battled widely and arms snaked quickly around each other. She moaned into his mouth. Harry broke from her, and started trailing tiny kisses down cheek, ear and finally her neck as she smiled as the touch. He came back to her face and she looked at him, "Stop," she said firmly.

"What?" he asked her, his breath tickling her ear as he started trailing kisses again.

"I said stop," she said.

He took a step away from her, "What? Why?" he asked her, completely bewildered.

"You haven't answered my questions, Harry," she told him, "Why were you with her?"

"Hermione," he said softly, "I have always been afraid that I could never have you. Ever since I saw you, I knew that you were always going to be a big part of my life. And when you started dating all these guys from work, I felt like what we had been was slowly disappearing into the sidelines. And I felt that I needed to have someone that was like you. If I couldn't have you, then who could I have?"

"Harry," she said, trying to get a word in edgeways.

He bridged the gap between them and brushed away the hair from her face before gently rubbing her cheek with his thumb. He looked down at her lips and then up to her eyes which were brimming with tears – the damn about to break. He laughed softly at himself and he brushed her bottom lip with his thumb in which she brought her hand to his. Her small fingers entwined around his, her gaze never braking.

She opened her mouth to speak, but he silenced her with his finger on her lips, "Hermione Granger," he spoke, his voice barely a whisper, "If I couldn't have you, then who could I have?" he said, repeating himself, "I now know the answer to that. If I couldn't have you, then I can't have anyone else in the world. . I know that we can make this work, Hermione. We have everything already right here."

"But Harry, how can I trust you?" she asked him earnestly.

He took hold of her other hand in his, "Learn to trust me. Learn to love me back Hermione," he paused in which she began to spoke.

"I think," she said before correcting herself, "Wait. I _know _ I am falling for you Harry but I just don't want my heart broken..."

"I wouldn't do anything to hurt you, EVER Hermione," he confessed.

"How do I know?" she said, quizzing him again.

"Because I've already fallen for you Hermione and you've already got my heart to do whatever you want with."

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**A/N: ****So there you go. The end of my very first fanfiction. I would like to say a massive thank you to all the people who have took the time to read this story and an even bigger thank you to those who have stuck with me from the beginning and have given me feedback to keep going. From a prologue which I had no idea what it was going to end up as – to a story that seems to be the weirdest collection of angst, fluff and humour that I have ever seen. **

**Question: will there be a sequel? Answer: maybe in the distant future. I start full time education in September again, so there will be limited time in my day, but I might try and fit some more little ficlets into the equation. However, there are two little one shots on my stories that you might like in the mean time. **

**I welcome reviews with open arms, and I promise that I reply to each one personally. The end of the journey has arrived. **


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